Jose Maria de Heredia Poems

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The Flute

Evening is here. Some pigeons cross the sky.
Nothing so well an amorous fever chains
As when with pipe to lip its soothing strains

Death Of The Eagle

Although beyond the eternal snows, aspires
The vast-winged eagle still to loftier air,
That nearer to the sun in blue more clear

Sea Bleeze

The winter has deflowered garden and heath;
Nought lives; and on the rock's unchanging gray,
Where the Atlantic's endless billows play,

Antony And Cleopatra

On Egypt sleeping under sky of brass
The twain gazed wistfully from terrace high,
And watched the Flood, through Delta rolling high,

The Runner

As when at Delphi, Thymus close behind,
He flew through stadium to applause's roar,
So on this plinth now Ladas runs one more,

Life Of The Dead

When over us the cross its shadow throws,
Our frames enshrouded in the mould of night,
Thy body shall reflower in lily white,

To The Divine Mountains

Blue glaciers, peaks of marble, granite, slate,
Moraines whence winds from Begle to Nethou
The wheat and rye send blighting ruin through,

On The Book Of Loves Of Pierre De Ronsard

In Bourgueil Gardens more than one of yore
Engraved loved names on bark with heavy stroke,
And many a heart 'neath Louvre's gold ceilings shook,


Juan Ponce de Leon, by the Devil led,
With years weighed down and crammed with antique lore,
Seeing age branch his stubby locks still more,


O'er their soft limbs has myrrh its fragrance shed;
And bathed in warmth beneath December's skies

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